Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  732-472-0818: DO NOT LIKE THAT NICKNAME. BE THERE IN TEN.

  “Did I see Dan leave our apartment yesterday morning?” Cassie asks as we ride the subway downtown to work Wednesday.

  “Yes,” I say tentatively, ashamed. “Don’t judge me!”

  “I’m not judging. I’m just . . . confused. Didn’t you end it with him?”

  “I did. Yes. But then, Monday night I was out with Ashley, and he texted. She was ready to go home, and I was, well—you know I’m still having trouble sleeping—so I figured, if I’m going to be up, I might as well be having fun. . . . Right?”

  “Yeah. Why not? So, how was it?”

  “It was the same as usual.” I shrug. “Good fun. But yesterday morning, I forced myself to regive the ‘this clearly isn’t working’ speech.”

  “Which said . . .”

  “We always have fun together and I’m undoubtedly attracted to him, but outside of those two things, the only other things I know about him are that he’s kind of judgmental and extremely inattentive. . . . I said we both know that the other knows how to be in a relationship, and yet we’re both exerting extremely minimal, if any, effort in this one.”

  “That’s a good point,” Cassie says.

  “I thought so. So to sum it up I said, ‘Let’s call a spade a spade, and high-five and part ways.’ . . . And then I finally added his phone number to my contacts and made him pinky swear that he’d answer my call sometime in December if I ever actually find a new place and can convince my landlord to let me Venetian plaster it.”

  “How’s the search going?”

  “It’s going. You know.” I sigh.

  “You know you don’t have to move.”

  “I know.” My shoulders sag. “But also, I kind of do.”

  “Nicole and I have talked about it. A lot. We’re happy to do whatever you want. You know we’re both only living in our tiny walk-up—”

  “You mean palace,” I joke.

  She smiles and reaches over to give my arm a squeeze. “Right. Our palace because we love being your roommates. And we are equally happy to strike out on our own right now, too, if the timing works for you. But also, maybe now’s not the best time for you . . .”

  “I know,” I say softly. “Thank you.” She’s still squeezing my arm. My eyes begin to well up. “I just feel like I have to change something. Living with you guys is—obviously—the best thing I’ve got going for me. But I feel like something’s gotta give. . . . You know the NYC trifecta: job, relationship, apartment—two of those are so totally sucking for me beyond all possible belief right now. And I can’t seem to fix them, no matter how hard I try. But I need something in my daily life to change. I can’t keep doing . . . this.”

  “So no news from the Landmarks Commission, I take it?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Or that painting studio?” she asks hopefully.

  “I have an interview lined up, but I’m not sure there’s really a position there. And even if there is, it’s not a perfect fit, since they don’t technically practice conservation.” I groan. “Job openings in conservation come up so infrequently. I reached out to pretty much every company and conservator I know. I feel like I’m just going to have to stick it out at RA forever.”

  “Well, maybe for another few months,” Cassie commiserates. “Changing jobs always takes so much more time than it should.”

  I sigh. “I know it seems stupid, leaving the only good thing I’ve got. But, I have this idea, this hope, that maybe if I change just one thing, the others will start to change, too? Be in a new neighborhood with a new coffee shop, new faces, a new outlook. . . . I don’t know. I need a new perspective . . . even if that just means a new geographic perspective.”

  Cassie envelops me in a bear hug, and all our fellow straphangers stare as I wipe at my face, doing my best to hold back the tears.

  “So if we all do move,” she says, upbeat, “why is Dan interested in your plaster walls?”

  “Oh.” I stand up straighter. “He’s a pro at this, or so he tells me. . . . So back on our first date, I made him promise to teach me one day. Now I’m just holding him to his promise.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He said okay, then he proceeded to booty call me last night and text me again this morning. Boys are so strange.”

  poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg Returns

  Ashley landed free tickets to the US Open from her office and invited me as her plus-one. She’s headed to the bar and I’m holding the seats, waiting for Serena Williams’s match to recommence. Out of boredom more than anything else, I text Greg:

  September 7 at 9:13 p.m.

  ALISON: OK, WAIT. IN SERIOUSNESS, I’M AT THE US OPEN. IS THAT YOU DOWN THERE FETCHING BALLS IN YOUR RALPH LAUREN TENNIS STRIPES?

  GREG: HEY I TOTALLY JUST WAVED AT YOU, WTF? I GUESS YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR THE COMMON BALL BOY.

  GREG: FYI, THE INTERVIEW PROCESS WASN’T EASY. I PRACTICED RUNNING ACROSS GREENWICH STREET SCOOPING UP RATS ON GARBAGE DAYS TO PREPARE FOR THESE NEXT TWO WEEKS CHASING BALLS.

  GREG: CRAP, GOTTA GO. BROOKE SHIELDS NEEDS A REFILL ON HER ARNOLD PALMER AGAIN. I SWEAR SHE EATS BABIES OR SOMETHING TO STILL LOOK THAT GOOD.

  Brooke Shields actually is here. He must be watching on TV, or at least have turned it on once I texted.

  Two days later, I receive the following:

  September 9 at 8:31 p.m.

  GREG: OK WAIT - NOW I’M AT THE US OPEN. . . . ARE YOU IN A WHITE JUMPSUIT WIELDING A GIANT ORANGE HAIR-DRYER TO DRY OFF THE COURTS?

  ALISON: AS A MATTER OF FACT, YES, THAT’S ME. ON THE ONE HAND, THE BLOW-DRYER’S KINDA HEAVY & AWKWARD; ON THE OTHER, IT’S NICE TO HAVE A MOMENT TO SHINE, PUBLICLY . . .

  ALISON: YOU KNOW, MY 15 MINUTES OF FAME.

  ALISON: WHY DIDN’T YOU COME DOWN TO SAY HI? HAVE YOU JUST BEEN BREADCRUMBING ME THIS WHOLE TIME?

  I’m waiting for paint stripper to dry on the third floor of the Armory, and I can feel the reverberations from the sound system of the Proenza Schouler show on the first floor pulsing through the floorboards beneath me. I text Greg:

  September 15 at 1:36 p.m.

  ALISON: RANDOM, BUT I’M AT FASHION WEEK AT THE PARK AVENUE ARMORY. DID YOU JUST STRUT DOWN THE RUNWAY IN A MESH UNITARD AND CAPE? HOT!

  GREG: DID YOU SERIOUSLY NOT KNOW I WAS A MALE MODEL? I MEAN, NOT TO BE BOASTFUL BUT . . . DIDN’T YOU AT LEAST ASSUME?

  A few weeks later, he texts again:

  October 9 at 4:08 p.m.

  GREG: SO FOR SERIOUS, ALISON, WILL YOU BE MY FACEBOOK FRIEND? THOUGHT I’D ASK BEFORE SENDING A REQUEST AND GETTING REJECTED.

  ALISON: HMM. . . I DON’T KNOW IF WE’RE READY TO BE FB FRIENDS. WHAT WE’VE GOT GOING ON IS SO GOOD! I DON’T WANT TO RUIN IT WITH UNNECESSARY LEVELS OF COMMUNICATION. . . . I MEAN, RIGHT?

  GREG: WORD. IT’LL BE A SANDRA BULLOCK MOVIE IN 2021. PLOT ABOUT HOW I EXILED MYSELF A LA PETERSEN BROS, PERHAPS ON PAROLE BY THE MOVIE’S DENOUEMENT.

  ALISON: THERE’S NO FRICKIN’ WAY YOU’RE STILL EXILED! REGARDLESS, YOUR MOVIE HAS “BLOCKBUSTER” WRITTEN ALL OVER IT. ANTICIPATION FOR 2021 IS MOUNTING ALREADY!

  exexpatMT: Always Mr. Nice Guy (Marc)

  “Tell us about the wedding!” Ashley says, pulling a chair out to sit down. “I brought rosé.” She extracts a bottle from her handbag and places it on the table.

  “Goodness, where to begin? . . . But first, catch up, you’re behind.” I hand her a glass and the open bottle of Chardonnay. “We haven’t ordered yet.” I pass her a menu.

  “Was it as miserable as we all imagined?” Blaire asks.

  “Well, their friends are really nice; there was a bonfire into the wee hours with the singles crowd; and I learned how to swing dance. All good things.”

  “But,” Nicole prods.

  “But I also got a wicked case of poison ivy from having to rake the path down to the wedding site. And then I looked like a rashy icicle with rats-nest hair by the time the reception rolled around
because our strapless bridesmaids’ dresses were kind of thin, and the bride didn’t want us wearing shawls or cardigans during the two-hour-long ceremony. In forty-degree weather, with twenty mile-per-hour winds.”

  “Eesh,” Ashley says. “Guys, promise me we will never be ‘those brides?’”

  “Cross my heart,” I say at the same time that Nicole and Blaire say, “Promise.”

  “Wait! What happened to our Sesame Street house? And swearing off marriage forever?” Cassie asks, looking deflated.

  “I meant when I marry you.”

  “I don’t know,” Cassie says disconsolately. “You had a lot of dates this week.”

  “Taha!” I laugh out loud. “Yes, I’m going to elope with Douchey Dan in lieu of moving into our swingers’ townhouse because he seems like my Mr. Right. . . . You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried about Douchey Dan. Marc,” Cassie says.

  “Who’s Marc?” Blaire asks.

  “He’s . . . just a guy. Cute. Red hair—”

  “—Ooh! Your first ginger!” Ashley exclaims, clapping her hands. “Tell me more.”

  “He goes to Columbia Business School—”

  “Like everyone else she’s dating right now,” Nicole jumps in.

  “Doesn’t that get complicated? What if they’re friends?” Blaire asks.

  “I doubt they know each other. Dan just finished his coursework; Marc just started his second year; Friedrich teaches there. I bet they never cross paths, at least not in a personal sense.”

  “More about the ginger . . . Marc?” Ashley asks.

  “I don’t know. He worked in Vienna for several years, just finished a cross-country road trip by himself. . . . Adventurous. Smart. Seems like the nicest person I’ve ever dated? Just thoroughly, genuinely nice.”

  “But,” Nicole says.

  “No, stop.” I shoot her an admonishing glare. “No ‘buts.’”

  “But what?” Ashley asks.

  “But nothing,” I say at the same time that Nicole says, “But she’s just not that into him.”

  “That’s not true.” I shake my head. “He’s basically a prince.”

  “How so?” Ashley asks.

  “So, when I got back from the wedding, I came down with the flu. Probably a combination of freezing rain, poison ivy, whatever.”

  “Sorry.” Ashley frowns.

  “No no, it’s fine. The point was that we didn’t even have a date last week, but Marc dropped off chicken soup from Zabar’s.”

  “Prince indeed. Where do you find people like that?”

  “Match.com.” I shrug.

  “How many dates has it been?” Blaire asks.

  “Three.”

  “That sounds above and beyond for three dates,” Ashley says. “Does that mean you’ve . . . slept over?”

  “No no no.”

  “Have you made out?” Blaire asks.

  I shake my head, then self-correct, “Well, actually, he tried. I went in for a hug, he went in for a kiss, and then it was like she hugs-he kisses-she hugs-he kisses,” I mime ping-ponging between my hands. “It was actually pretty terrible.”

  “That’s not the terrible part!” Nicole laughs.

  I roll my eyes. “Be nice. . . . But yes, he then sent me an email apologizing for the goodbye misfire. Which kind of heightened the awkwardness.”

  “Awwwww,” Ashley says. “He sounds like such a sweetheart.”

  “He is. But . . . it’s only been three dates, so . . . not worth talking about. What about you guys?” I glance around the table at each of them in turn.

  “Same old, same old.”

  “Are we wingwomaning after dinner tonight?” Cassie asks.

  “What else would we be doing?”

  “Where to?”

  “Have you guys heard of Hotel Delmano? Over in Williamsburg? It sounds kind of trendy, loungy,” Ashley suggests.

  “Are there men there?”

  “Yeah, lots. It’s a neat scene, drinks with absinthe and such,” I say. “I went there with Luke.” Everyone looks at me. “Can we not go there tonight? Like, maybe to some other part of Brooklyn instead?” I ask hopefully. “Or stay in Manhattan, since we’re in Manhattan now?”

  “It’s fine, we’ll go somewhere else.” Cassie turns to me. “But why does it matter if he’s dead?” she asks with mock sincerity.

  I smile weakly.

  “You’re pretending he’s dead?” Blaire asks.

  “Not, like, in a murderous, vengeance-filled way. In a happy . . . not-injured way—like he just magically . . . ceased to inhabit the same city as me. And the same planet.”

  “That makes it easier?”

  “Slightly.”

  “So, where should we go?” Nicole asks. “Since Williamsburg is officially off the table.”

  “You’re acting like I’m a crazy person.” I pout. “You should be happy I’m not suggesting we rent Citi Bikes and cycle around his block for the rest of the night. I’m doing the opposite,” I say proudly.

  Cassie nods. “It’s true. But what if we all promise to verbally assault him if we see him?”

  “I could physically assault him,” Ashley offers.

  “Both of those things might actually be more unsettling than seeing him in the first place. . . . How about if you guys pinky swear that if we see him-slash-his ghost, you’ll all throw your shoes at him . . . then I guess we can go out in Williamsburg.” I sigh melodramatically. “But not to the Hotel Delmano, please.”

  “Don’t you think you’re better off now anyway?” Ashley asks gently. “No more heart palpitations, right?”

  I nod weakly.

  “And you’ve got a bevy of eligible bachelors knocking down your door . . .” Ashley continues.

  “Well, first, I wouldn’t say that. And second, it doesn’t really work that way, right? Like meeting or dating new people can magically make you forget?”

  “If it’s the right person, they can,” Cassie says.

  “She hasn’t played ‘Yellow’ in over a week.” Nicole raises her glass to toast this accomplishment.

  “Actually,” I say lifting my glass, “I have . . . but only on my iPod, so you couldn’t hear it.”

  “So what’s new with your Columbia dating triangle? Square?” Blaire asks at a Friday BYOB dinner two weeks later.

  “Not much. Though the professor’s out of the picture, so it’s a triangle now. If you can consider Dan a vertex.”

  “Have you seen the ginger?” Ashley asks.

  “Yeah, we had dinner Wednesday. I’d told him about my thesis research in New Orleans, so he picked this nifty Cajun hole-in-the-wall that’s actually near your apartment.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. He keeps introducing me to cool, off-the-radar bars and eateries—it’s fun,” I say brightly. “He’s just insanely nice. Like, that night, Jason got into a funk. Long story, but this terrible girl he’s been seeing broke up with him, and he called me because he was really bummed. . . . When I didn’t pick up, he texted. . . . I saw the text, felt bad, asked if I could step outside to call Jason quickly to tell him I’d call him when I got home. . . . Anyway, of course Marc said yes, but then I cut things a bit short after dinner because I felt like I needed to talk to Jason in his . . . time of need or whatever. So then I get this text from Marc the next morning. . . . Hang on, I’ll read it to you because I’ll botch it otherwise.”

  I fish my cell phone out of my bag and begin, “‘As much as you apologized for getting the phone, picking it up was definitely the best thing to do.’ Exclamation point. ‘And you were right to peel off early to comfort a friend in need. Absolutely no need to apologize.’ Exclamation point. ‘It sounded like Jason needed you.’ Parenthesis: ‘Which was far more important than talking about how disappointing the Breaking Bad spin-off was’; end of parenthesis. ‘And you were a great friend to him.’ Dot dot dot. ‘Always a very attractive quality.’ Exclamation point. Smiley face.”

  “Ohhh
hh,” Cassie and Ashley trill at the same time.

  “What did you say back?” Blaire asks.

  “You are too nice. Stop. Being. So. Nice.”

  “No, what’d you really say?” she repeats.

  “Really, that’s what I said.”

  “I think Nicole’s right. I hear undertones of a big ‘but,’” Blaire says.

  “No buts. He’s a prince.”

  “But why are you still seeing Dan then? I mean, I doubt Dan even knows how to make a smiley face emoticon,” Blaire says pointedly.

  I laugh. “I don’t know. I have fun with Dan, and I’m really attracted to him. And it’s not that I don’t have fun with Marc. I do. But . . . I don’t want to, like—”

  “Jump his bones or anything,” Cassie says.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well if he’s cute, and so princely, which it sounds like he is . . . why not?”

  “I don’t know.” I take a sip of my wine. “He says things that are kind of . . . turnoffs.”

  “Like? . . .”

  “He says ‘wee bit’ . . . Like, ‘I’m feeling a wee bit loopy from the all-nighter I pulled last night.’ Or, ‘I’m going to take a wee bit of a nap now.’”

  “I’ve heard you say ‘wee bit,’” Cassie says.

  “I know. But I say it in jest. Like, ‘I’m feeling a wee bit squeamish about x, y, z.’ Or, ‘you, my friend,’” I turn to Cassie, “‘seemed a wee bit inebriated after your date last night.’”

  Nicole snorts.

  “I know.” I pout. “Isn’t that so stupid? I’m being so stupid. And mean. I know.”

  “I agree it’s kind of a turnoff, but if you liked him, you’d ignore it,” Cassie says.

  “Not necessarily,” I counter.

  “James’s quirks were way worse, and you got past those,” Nicole challenges.

  “I’m with Nicole,” Blaire says. “You don’t sound that into him.”

  “I am. He’s terrific.”

  “Look, Al,” Nicole says. “Nice is nice . . . but, nice isn’t necessarily hot.”

  “Cassie,” I sing when she walks in the door to our apartment. “Marc brought you a present!”